


Extenuating Circumstances

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: posthumous [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Biting, Blow Jobs, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, I guess????, Injury, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Blood, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multiple Orgasms, Mutually Beneficial Pining, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Open Marriage, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Pet Names, Potentially Ruinous Hand Jobs, Red Mage Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Pollen, Sexual Tension, Smut, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Spoilers for RDM questline, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, sorta - Freeform, veeeery light, what am i if not a little fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: It’s a terrible mistake, X'rhun learns, because now all he wants to do is open the door and let the diluted scent of some strange, not-quite-Seeker heat slam full force into his face. He abstains and waits for a response, however. He knows better than to let himself in.
Relationships: X'rhun Tia/Original Character(s), X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light
Series: posthumous [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1266878
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> little note:  
> Fahmi is a trans man!! All terms used to refer to his genitalia are either ambiguous or refer to the actual biological part (ie. clit, labia, etc.)  
> Please hit the back button/close out of this tab if that is potentially uncomfortable/triggering to you!! be safe!!
> 
> huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge thank you to sophie, kat, leon, and anyone else that has listened to me scream about these two. ya'll are the real mvps

There is no worse place to be than outside the thin, inn-room door while the Warrior of Light gets off. X’rhun would prefer to be less crude about his wording, but considering the circumstances (induced heat due to Lilith’s venom), he can’t find anything more appropriate. Saying Fahmi is taking his pleasure would imply that he isn’t just sweating out a fever and trying to take the edge off of a supernaturally strong drive to have sex. Saying he’s just trying to get off helps X’rhun ignore the pained noises emanating from within. 

He worries. It’s just what he tends to do by  _ default,  _ but Fahmi always makes it worse. He’d only allowed X’rhun to tend the mess of his shoulder after Arya and Jesse had collectively put their feet down and made sure he was bandaged no matter the volume of his whining. He isn’t one to allow others to handle what he feels is within his ability to weather. It’s a blessing and a curse. 

X’rhun tries not to think about what  _ any  _ noises might mean—the soft moaning that filters through every now and again, the creak of the Seventh Heaven’s shite mattress springs when Fahmi shifts, the groaning that sounds more like death than gratification—and instead taps his foot to distract himself from… (how sometimes there’s a muffled  _ ah-ah-ah  _ like there’s only a razor’s edge left keeping Fahmi from—) all of it. 

It doesn’t help. 

He should’ve asked one of the Scions to handle this. He should have told Tataru that yes, her assistance in this matter would be greatly appreciated. She needn’t do anything other than force Fahmi to take a sleeping tincture until the venom’s effects are lessened (dangerous as that may be). But he didn’t when she offered. Now, he pays the price. 

There was a time after returning to Mor Dhona where he’d helped Fahmi into a fresh shirt and into bed, sitting in the rickety desk chair and crossing his arms to ensure that his dear, self-destructive Warrior of Light would not go vaulting out the window to complete some inane quest. They’d stewed in silence for over a bell. Fahmi would turn from his back to his side every now and again, hissing through his teeth whenever he strained his right shoulder. There was no reason for him to reject another antidote when it would (at least) bring down the fever, if not soothe some portion of the other… symptoms. Urges. Whatever the hells they’re supposed to be called. But the point is that Fahmi, in a show of predictable self-neglect, had decided he would sweat out poison in the lonely and badly-insulated confines of the Seventh Heaven’s last available inn room. 

Had X’rhun been a less upstanding individual, he would have long since left his post outside the door to drown in drink and repress the mental echo of yet another incriminatingly sexual noise. Being a man of unbending principle, he does not abandon watch even when time drags on and he hears the familiar chime of the inn’s grandfather chronometer echo down the hallway. He simply leans against the brick and affects nonchalance best he can whenever someone walks by. 

He’s a bell and a half into standing around in case of emergency when he decides he may as well knock and see if Fahmi is still lucid. His feet hurt when he shifts, straightening from where he had been leaning against the wall and uncrossing his arms. Checking his nails and bouncing his leg has long since grown more tedious than distracting. He can’t drill forms in the hallway, but the energy is there. It buzzes beneath his skin like a swarm of hornets, restless and  _ loud,  _ asking him to do something. Anything. Just fight it out or give in to the lovely smell wafting through the gap beneath the door. 

He is so focused on not thinking about what, specifically, is  _ behind  _ the door that his knuckles making contact with the wood comes as a surprise. He startles, blinking a few times, before taking a deep breath. It’s a terrible mistake, he quickly learns, because now all he wants to do is open the door and let the diluted scent of some strange, not-quite-Seeker heat slam full force into his face. He abstains and waits, however. He knows better than to let himself in. 

There is no reply. 

His knocks again. 

Silence. 

Then, not even a second before he opens the door to peek and make sure Fahmi isn’t… dead (or nearly there), he hears a soft hiss. Fahmi’s voice is barely audible from the hallway when he says,  _ “Ah, shite. Tha’s blood.” _

X’rhun takes a solid three and a quarter seconds to brace himself before calling, “I’m coming in.” He falters with his hand on the doorknob, but manages to turn it with minimal anticipatory mortification. 

He keeps his eyes on the floor and closes the door behind himself, flipping the lock to avoid drunkards accidentally letting themselves in. Fahmi growls, the sound low and sputtering in his chest. “It’s just me,” X’rhun says, voice far more composed than he feels. “Are you alright?”

The growl peters out. “No.”

“Are you in a state of…” He begins, trailing off. He clears his throat, wishing his hat brim was wide enough to cover the flush of his cheeks. Even if Fahmi cannot see it, it would be a comfort to have. He tries again. “Are you decent?”

“Aside from all th’ blood, yeah?”

“Aside from the blood.”

Fahmi huffs, shifting with the sound of bedsprings creaking, and replies, “‘Course I am. I’s jus’  _ poison,  _ Rhun. Been ignorin’ it.” 

X’rhun glances up from the floorboards just to make sure it isn’t a case of Fahmi’s broken understanding of modesty talking and gets… a view. A decidedly worrisome and less than sexy view. 

The bandages wrapped about Fahmi’s shoulder are saturated with red, sticking to the inside of his shirt. The paleness of his skin has taken on a greyish cast, not unlike that of a body barely breathing, and when X’rhun makes it to his bedside, he soon finds that his temperature is far higher than it should ever be. It’s a wonder Fahmi has yet to lose his senses from the heat alone, much less all of the other symptoms set on making the experience awful instead of pleasurable. 

X’rhun hunts through his coat pockets. He’d grabbed a few extra antidotes from a merchant before they’d set out, but he’d used two of them during their altercation with Lilith. The rest should be fine, he thinks, if he can manage to find them. 

Three pockets and one Gil later, he emerges victorious. Fahmi breathes with a measured pattern of in-hold-out that helps soothe X’rhun’s nerves. As much as it terrifies him to hear a rasp in each inhale, it’s far better than hearing nothing at all. He uncorks the vial and slips a hand behind Fahmi’s head, lifting his head somewhat so the syrupy potable won’t go down the wrong way. 

The Keeper grimaces, but doesn’t refuse his ministrations. The chemical tang of the antidote cuts through the scent of his false heat. It’s not made to taste good, just to save lives. The acidic bite of it is less a flavor and more a sensation—the type that makes Fahmi want to retch when it sticks to the back of his tongue—and even less tolerable than the coppery stench of blood. He wrinkles his nose when X’rhun offers another, keeping his lips shut to avoid another dose, and turns his head this way and that to make it all the harder. 

“Fahmi,” he says, frustration sharpening his tone, “stop wriggling. You need succor.”

Fahmi shakes his head. 

“I would fain see you hale and whole, rather than entombed.”

He frowns thunderously, but stops wiggling about.

“Will you let me tend to you?”

He lips part the barest fraction of an ilm. 

“Thank you.”

The second antidote is swallowed with more trouble than the first, but it brings some color back to his skin in its wake. The rasp softens somewhat, but that’s the last thing on X’rhun’s mind when the odd heat-like scent spikes instead of abating. 

He wracks his brain in hopes of remembering more from the tome he’d read in Ul’dah’s thaumaturgy guild than a vague  _ “may experience heightened sensitivity”  _ like that phrase alone is not enough to be taken in many ways (mostly the depraved ones, if he’s being honest). He comes up with a list he could tick off on one hand. 

  1. Sweating and fever
  2. Headache
  3. Lowered coordination



And the most terrifying of them all:

  1. Drastically increased sexual appetite



For someone like Fahmi, it might as well be a death sentence. 

While neither of them are virgins by any means, Fahmi is probably the least sex-minded individual X’rhun has ever had the pleasure of knowing. For all he's aware, Fahmi may as well be a saint. He does not engage in the all-too-common pleasures of his own right hand the way others (read: X’rhun) do. Simply put, he is the paragon of chaste affection and X’rhun would give nearly anything to ruin him. 

Keyword:  _ nearly. _

He would not sacrifice Fahmi’s own autonomy in this matter. Hells, he would never at  _ all.  _

But it does not stop him from craving with such an intensity it makes his teeth itch. 

He had chalked up the acrid notes in Fahmi’s scent to aether sickness, at first. Between a strenuous battle and the nauseatingly aspected aether of Mhach, it would not be unexpected. Then, shortly after Fahmi had downed the first antidote of the evening, he’d gotten a distinct whiff of something not unlike a Seeker in rut. 

Having considered Fahmi’s unorthodox heritage, he had struggled to assume anything other than aether sickness. The chance of his instinct-driven assumption being true was low enough then. Even now, half drowning in the smell of cracked earth and something like damp riverstone, he struggles to believe what his nose is telling him. 

Fahmi following a Seeker’s cycle is impossible. He’s not even a full-blooded  _ Keeper,  _ for Saint Adama’s sake! The Xaela are not a people he is familiar with, but (be that as it may) X’rhun doubts they produce the same pheromones as those of his kind. Hells, he doubts they even have the same scent glands, if any at all. Fahmi takes far more heavily after his Keeper side, regardless. 

If not some heat or rut _ ,  _ then what is it? What else could it even  _ be?  _

(And then there is, of course, the issue of his wishful thinking. He would like to call the smell something like desire, but he is not so juvenile as to think he would be considered as a potential partner by someone with eyes for another. If there is anything he can say, it would be that Fahmi is painfully good at ensuring any potential suitors leave the way they came. He is  _ married!  _ Happily! To a literal prince who treats him like a world-class treasure—as he deserves—and dotes upon his every need like he is attending a king. Even had he not been open about the nature of his relationship with one Hien Rijin, it would still be beyond X’rhun’s bounds to ask him to consider otherwise.  To consider his hand, specifically. )

As some of the more worrying symptoms begin to recede, he can turn his focus to the bloodied mess of bandages covering Fahmi’s shoulder. The process of getting him out of the loose shirt (something he’d pulled from that ridiculous inventory of his) is nearly easier than it had been getting it on him. The buttons are still undone and leave the neck wide enough that he can whisper a prayer and slice through from collar to sleeve without worry. Fahmi looks only  _ mildly  _ affronted that one of his glamour items has been destroyed, though even that dissolves once X’rhun begins to remove the saturated bandages. 

The strips of cotton and bleached hemp stick to the remnants of the scabs that had been holding the wounds closed. It takes a lot of careful dampening and wiping to clear away tacky blood and soften the dried bits before he can clear away all the pieces that need to be replaced. Dumping the soiled bandages into the (mercifully unused) chamberpot, he grabs a yet-untouched roll from the side table. Thanking his past self who thought far enough ahead to leave extra supplies out (intended for Fahmi’s use if needed and not whatever they’re doing now), he unspools a couple fulms of fabric and begins to rewrap the joint. Fahmi bites his lip and keeps still the entire time. 

It feels like an exercise in decency and self-restraint to focus on tending to his companion’s injuries and not his distractingly unclothed chest. Or dizzyingly powerful smell. Or the half-unlaced waist of his ridiculously well-fitted trousers. 

X’rhun whips his gaze up from where it had wandered, tying off the ends of the bandaging and tucking them underneath the knot securely. He is still processing the situation at hand, mind slowly chugging along toward some unknown conclusion, and it dawns on him a quarter of a bell later that where he bad expected to see tenting he had seen… wetness? 

(It couldn’t be urine. That would be a smell strong enough to turn his stomach.)

They’d talked about the potential of Lilith’s venom presenting  _ unorthodox _ side effects, but they hadn’t actually… come up with a plan. Fahmi had just looked at him and said,  _ “If somethin’ needs t’be done, I trust you.”  _ He hadn’t retracted his consent even after X’rhun clarified that he meant both the deadly  _ and  _ sexual possibilities. He’d simply nodded again and set off on his way. 

X’rhun still asks again, hoping against all hope that he will be rejected just to have a chance of killing the little voice that says he might have a chance, in a voice roughened with want. “May I assist—or, rather, may I take liberties?”

Fahmi tilts his head toward him. Even with unseeing eyes, he gives X’rhun the feeling of being stripped bare as his nameday. The strangely whitened scars peppering his cheeks and forehead are no easier to focus on than the eyes currently boring holes into his soul. 

The craving has become so strong he thinks it may as well be a hunger pang. 

Seemingly satisfied with whatever he was searching for, Fahmi mumbles, “You may.” His tail thumps against the bed in a display of agitation. 

X’rhun feels it cannot hurt to be cautious. He has no intent to take liberties on anyone who is less than willing, even by the barest percent. “Are you certain?”

The flat look he gets is met with the crossing of arms. “I will not lay a hand on you without your full consent,” he reminds. “We discussed this.”

“An’ I said it was  _ fine.  _ Hien’s fine with it, too. _ ” _

“And I said I would ask again, given you were lucid and in need of succor.”

Fahmi huffs and looks away. The high ridge of his cheek burns red when he repeats, “You may.”

He makes no further movements or utterances. 

X’rhun clears his throat. He blinks. He considers whether or not he should take off his coat before doing whatever-it-is he’s about to do before deciding in favor of it. Then, he is reminded of why those of the Red oft complained about how godsdamned  _ difficult  _ it was to have trysts in uniform. There are a lot of buttons and buckles to be undone.

Fahmi tires of the metallic clicking before X’rhun does, wrapping a hand about his wrist and placing it squarely on his (still exposed) chest. Specifically, on the center of a very bare, very attractive pectoral. 

Prayers to Saint Adama will not grant his soul rest where it slips out his mouth. He can’t gather his wits fast enough to respond with more than a vague,  _ “Oh.” _

“You asked to touch me. Why were you… pacing? Fiddling?” 

“I was attempting to remove my coat,” he answers. 

Fahmi flushes red in splotches that reach all the way down to his chest. Now, it’s _ his  _ turn to whisper, “Oh.”

X’rhun laughs. He feels  _ terrible  _ for it, but  _ gods!  _ They’re both terrible at this, absolutely clueless. The last time he was together with someone had been… well, he doesn’t want to think back that far. He is decidedly rusty and his “charms” are less charming and more just cliché. He has no idea how to do this, anymore. From Fahmi’s reaction, neither does he. 

The Keeper takes his laughter the wrong way and curls in on himself before wincing when it pulls at his shoulder. It takes a small flood of apologies and a confession of X’rhun’s woefully lacking sexual exploits before he stops trying to hide himself behind his own two-and-some-fulms monster of a tail. His shoulder still pains him, the strain visible in how his right hand only knots in the sheets instead of helping to pull hair over his face like the left.

He looks rightfully upset when he peeks out from behind a curtain of ink-like hair to mutter apologies of his own. “S’rry. Hien does that too an’ I clammed up, ‘s all.”

X’rhun tries not to think about how, given the context, that means they laugh during sex. Together. As a married couple. 

A married couple who have no space for an old man whose prospects are bleak and far from Fahmi-shaped. 

His chest hurts. 

Fahmi must sense something because he asks, quiet and oh so cautious, “‘Re y’ alright, Rhun? Aether’s sour.” His ears flick, rotating sharply toward the door when footsteps sound in the hall, following the dull, fading  _ thump _ - _ thump-thump  _ of workboots on wood. 

“Nothing to worry about,” he replies, affecting some manner of bravado, “I assure you.”

The assurance is less for his companion and more for himself. 

Fahmi frowns, clearly upset by his lie, but says nothing further. He simply grabs X’rhun’s hand again and places it on his chest for the second time. He waits, tail flicking at the tip, and does his best not to look disappointed when the Seeker doesn’t move. 

X’rhun just sits there! Palm flat on bare skin! And doesn’t even think to possibly pat or squeeze or do something (literally anything) that won’t read as rejection. 

Internally, he wants to scream. Externally, he tentatively and very awkwardly slides his hand upward. It feels no less dangerous to have his palm resting against Fahmi’s neck. The racing of his heartbeat beneath his fingers is a temptation X’rhun was never ready to deny. 

He fumbles for something to say, something to do, something to  _ think— _ and then it hits him with all the force of a Magitek Reaper. 

Why is he so nervous? He  _ has  _ done this before. Multiple times. Though they may be a ways in the past, he is by no means inexperienced. All he need do is calm himself and focus on what  _ Fahmi _ wants. 

Which means asking. 

He opens his mouth before closing it, taking a steadying breath, and trying again. “What would you have of me?”

“Just  _ touch,”  _ Fahmi snaps. “Ev’rything  _ hurts,  _ Rhun. I… I-I’ve never done this. Haven’t…” he trails off, ears flattening to his head when he whispers,  _ “touched m’self.” _

“You haven’t?” 

The look he gets is nothing short of (pray excuse the pun) venomous. “No.”

X’rhun feels his face flood with color. He had been thinking that all the time he spent out in the hallway had been used for lascivious means. He hadn’t taken into account that Fahmi (by direct contrast to his scanty glamours of choice) is likely more saintlike than Adama Landama himself. 

He had completely failed to remember that Fahmi has, in his own words, “no want to swive some poor sod” and even less drive to make use of his own hand to grant himself relief for a problem he prefers to ignore than embrace. 

Asking for assistance is likely flustering him more than facing down a Primal in his smallclothes. X’rhun decides that he will do his utmost to appear like he is not, in fact, just as overwhelmed. Deciding that he will is not the same as enacting it, however, and there is a period where he simply attempts to ease Fahmi into being touched. 

It feels strangely intimate to comb through his hair and catch the little hitches in breathing that follow the gentle scraping of his nails against his scalp. His tail slowly stops flicking and instead lays calmly against the sheets, tension easing from his shoulders, and X’rhun realizes that he would not be opposed to simply staying like this all evening. He wants to keep breathing in the oddly familiar scent Fahmi gives off, to feel the slide of his hair betwixt his fingers, and to forget that he would not be allowed this without such harrowing circumstances. What had started as an attempt to calm both of their nerves backfires when he tries to move on from it.

Where does he even start? 

Previous experience aside, past seemingly lacking what most men have by birthright, Fahmi’s needs are an enigma. But before he can worry about that, they need to get his godsdamned trousers off. 

Fahmi attempts to assist with his good arm, shoving the left side down halfway past his hip, but it takes both of X’rhun’s hands tugging them down and off (combined with a lot of wiggling and turning when Fahmi’s position on the bed gets in the way) before he is left in his smalls. Having seen them before, X’rhun can at least say he is not surprised by the outlandish cut and complete lack of decent coverage. He just hasn’t seen them… in this context. Or  _ soaked,  _ for that matter. 

The few times they had changed within the same room, the most he had seen was the back (the very  _ indecent  _ back). This is… a lot more (or less) than he expected. 

Fahmi’s right hand tightens on the sheets. He presses his thighs together and mumbles, “I c’n feel y’ starin’. I know it's strange.”

“It is… a surprise, yes, but a pleasant one,” he manages. “I will ask again before aught else, are you certain this is what you want?”

“Yes.” 

X’rhun thumbs the thin waistband where it cuts across the curve of Fahmi’s hip. He can feel the slight shiver that follows. 

When he slides his hand downward, it’s a miracle he manages to avoid imploding. The skin on the inside of Fahmi’s thighs is  _ tacky, _ muscle jumping beneath his palms when he eases his legs apart. 

“May I?”

Fahmi nods. 

The first touch makes him gasp, skin prickling with goosebumps, and X’rhun thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have skipped from inner thigh to sliding two fingers gently against the front of his smalls. Fahmi’s hips stutter when he does it again and he turns his face into the pillow like some bashful lordling on his wedding night. 

Whenever Fahmi makes a sound, it’s always cut off halfway through. He bites his lip, his cheek, the pillow, whatever he can sink his teeth into and avoid embarrassing himself with. X’rhun has to reach up and remind him that it’s alright (“Let me hear you?”) and that chewing a hole through his own lip would just add to his troubles, not subtract from them. 

It doesn’t take long before Fahmi whines, high and reedy in the back of his throat like a terrified animal. He shivers, tense from head to toe like a bowstring, and grinds against the steady press of X’rhun’s fingers against him before it  _ snaps.  _ The gush of fluid is nearly enough to stain the cuff of the Seeker’s coat where it had slipped back down his arm. 

It’s almost worryingly  _ easy  _ to make him cum. All X’rhun had done could be ticked off on fewer than three fingers and he  _ still  _ had Fahmi shaking like a leaf at the barest bit of stimulation over his own knickers. 

He withdraws and makes to wipe off his hands and compose himself when Fahmi calls, “‘Re y’ leavin’?”

He falters and stops in his tracks. “I have no intention to impose, given you are satisfied.”

“An’ if ‘m not?”

“I will see to it that you are.”

Fahmi pushes at his underwear. He sounds nearly  _ smug  _ when he says, “Wasn’ enough.”

“And what else would you have of me?”

The Keeper gnaws at his lower lip before responding. He sounds nearly  _ hopeful  _ when he says, “Again, maybe?”

"As you wish."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “By Rhalgr,” X’rhun rasps, the entire lower half of his face a bit past damp. “That’s one hell of a compliment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These old men are living in my head rent free. I literally can’t write anything else

Fahmi smiles when the bed dips, X’rhun settling beside him closer than before. His expression falters when he eases his underwear out of the way, nervousness visible in the draw of his brows and how he catches his lip betwixt his teeth. His shudders when the fabric drags against him, lifting his hips as they’re tugged off and flung somewhere he is too preoccupied to follow. 

“Is this alright?”

“I’d say somethin’ if it wasn’t,” he says, closing his eyes like somehow it’ll make his embarrassment more bearable. X’rhun wonders if he even realizes he does it—Fahmi had gone blind somewhere between the time of Ala Mhigan liberation and his strange disappearance, he’d heard, and the whitened scars peppering his face from forehead to cheek are testament to that being truth—when all the world may as well be the same collection of shifting blobs. 

He nods, mentally smacks himself, and then says aloud, “Yes.  _ Okay.”  _ He sends a prayer out to whatever saints and gods may be listening that he won’t somehow ruin the entirety of their relationship via a handjob, steels himself, and very hesitantly repeats what he had done before. 

This time, without any fabric in the way.

Fahmi gasps, shifting into the touch, and X’rhun is acutely grateful that he shucked his coat before they resumed their… activities. His fingers are coated with slick near immediately. Had he his usual gloves and cuffs, they would surely be stained. 

He takes his time learning Fahmi’s tells. There are minute differences between the bitten-off, breathy sounds he makes when X’rhun grinds his thumb against his clit and when he rubs at it. The shifting of his hips follows an unconscious pattern where he chases his pleasure, a stuttering roll that matches the cadence of his cries. 

There is an uptick, a slight acceleration in his breathing to match the tension threatening to draw tight enough to snap, and the next time he whines, X’rhun adds just that bit more pressure when he presses against his clit and watches him unravel with the intensity of a man receiving revelation. 

The sight of Fahmi coming undone is… incredible. Impossible. It’s the type of scene he’s seen behind his eyelids after hitting the drink or sleeping alone through his rut. Saying it is anything short of dreamlike would be the understatement of the era, but he has no other words. He is so preoccupied with how someone so strong would lay beneath him and feel  _ embarrassed  _ by his wants and needs. He wishes Fahmi could see himself the way he does. The way  _ Hien  _ does. To see how ridiculously lucky they are to simply be near him. 

He wishes Fahmi could see how easily he would give anything to him, everything he could manage, and still want for more to offer just to feel remotely worthy. 

Fahmi wails, slapping a hand over his mouth when X’rhun slips a finger between his folds to press inside of him instead of allowing him rest the way he had with the first. It feels  _ strange.  _ Even with Hien, he rarely was the one receiving such acts. He prefers to give (and give and  _ give  _ until nothing is left of him) than receive, but this is something different from even the most pleasurable of evenings he’s had before.

There are sparks shooting up his spine in time with whatever X’rhun is doing with his hands, the sensation stealing the breath from his lungs, and it’s only the sharp warning pains from his shoulder that keep him clear-headed enough to avoid letting his voice out. 

As it is, he muffles the majority against the back of his own fist and tries to slow the tide where it rushes in and builds to heights he fears may drown him. 

X’rhun does not share his fear, however, and has no qualms about sliding in a second finger and then a third just to make him tremble. His free hand presses against the inside of Fahmi’s thigh, nails biting into the skin ever so slightly with a distractingly pleasant ache, and pets soothingly at his skin when he tips over the edge  _ again _ . 

He works him through it, feeling him clench down around his fingers and spill ever more slick onto the sheets. He leans down to whisper nothings to him and press chaste kisses across his brow like he would a lover─how good he is, how beautiful, how  _ perfect─ _ with a charlatan’s grace. 

X’rhun means every word he says and every gesture he makes, but he is also a liar whose motives are far from pure. He wants to pretend that he has the right to be delicate with him and to provide the love and assurance he knows is far beyond his reach. 

He pretends that the gasps, the disjointed attempts at coherency, and the way Fahmi leans into his kisses is more than the product of misfortune. 

It might kill him when it’s all said and done, but he’s been too stubborn to die thus far. He supposes dying from grief would be more anticlimactic than asking Fahmi to just  _ consider  _ his hand, but it’s also a lot less terrifying. He knows his faults and is more than ready to admit to his own cowardice. 

Fahmi comes down slowly. He shudders when X’rhun withdraws his fingers, yanking him down by the shirt collar for a sloppy kiss that is nearly more teeth than aught else, and the sensation is a reminder of dreams long past. 

_ (When he gasps, sprawled atop white sheets like a sacrifice, the points of his teeth look wickedly inviting. They’re sharper than any fellow Seeker X’rhun has met and longer, besides. The perfect size for latching onto him and demanding he submit, canines crushing down against the sides of his neck and puncturing skin until he bleeds—) _

There is a strange sort of desperation in how Fahmi demands his affection, hands pulling at him until they are pressed flush together and he can feel their hearts beating out of time. He allows himself to be kissed. He presses into it, tilting his head and parting his lips to allow him entrance, and is surprised when he gets a  _ nip.  _ His bottom lip stings and he can taste salt and copper on Fahmi’s tongue. 

He wonders if this is normal for him. Does Fahmi always turn ravenous or is it the venom? Is it a response to the rut-like cravings and that  _ scent─ _ gods, he wants to breathe deep and taste it on the back of his tongue. It’s flooded the room too strongly to tell if Fahmi is any less affected than before his “assistance” but it isn’t a bad thing. There is color in his cheeks and a surprising amount of energy left in him after three orgasms (two of which have soaked the sheets heavily enough to pose a threat to the worn out inn-room mattress). It’s proof enough that what he’s done has helped in some way, or, at least, that’s what he wants to believe. 

“How are we?” he asks between kisses. 

Fahmi blushes, turning away and pushing him back with trembling arms, and mumbles, “‘M sorry.”

“What for?”

“I─ah… y’r lip.”

X’rhun swipes his tongue across and shrugs. “Barely enough to bleed,” he replies. “Should it bring you comfort, I am glad to oblige.”

He flounders, ears flicking and rotating like he can’t quite process what he hears, before he whispers, “I don’ usually do that. Don’ usually bite other people.”

“Was it pleasant?”

“I… yes? I don’ know.”

X’rhun smiles, taking Fahmi’s hand in his own and placing it flat against the top of his chest, fingers brushing the hollow of his throat, and says, “There are plenty of other places, should you wish to test a theory.”

“A theory,” Fahmi replies, tone wavering, “that means I’d  _ bite _ you.”

“I know.”

He groans, turning his head and looking at him out of the corner of his eye before admitting that “I  _ do  _ want that, but not if y’r only offerin’ because of all o’ this other mess.”

X’rhun eases his anxiety one word at a time, working him back into some semblance of confidence with casual jokes and a steadying hold on his wrist. When Fahmi sits up, he nearly forces him back down, fearing for his shoulder until he recognizes the familiar ozone-and-aether smell of White magic. The stiffness he carried fades with the flashbang glow of Cure shining from beneath layers of bandaging. It’s replaced with a surety and bravado that doesn’t reflect the nervousness in his expression. 

He leans in, breath raising goosebumps on the side of his neck, and asks, “Are y’ sure?”

“Yes,” X’rhun replies, tail end of the word thinning to a hiss when Fahmi’s teeth press gently against his skin. It lights up the part of his brain he’s long since learned to ignore─the part that likes to remind him of all that which is unattainable while in the throes of his rut, the one that fixates on the predatory profile of canines and incisors and reminds him that he’s never been considered desirable enough to bond─and he has to bite his tongue to avoid asking for more. He wants pressure, bruising, the terrible ache of being marked spreading across the back of his neck like he is  _ wanted  _ and he knows that the moment he gets it, there will be no recovering. No going back. 

He’ll shatter to pieces. 

Fahmi stops. He recoils and shakes his head. 

“Are you alright?”

“I… I  _ want  _ to,” he answers, licking his lips like he’s ravenous, “but it feels  _ strange _ still and I don’ think it’ll go away if I do.”

X’rhun steadies his voice best he can when he asks, “Is there something else you would have of me, or should I leave you to attend to your needs?” He tries not to sound disappointed, but from the frown that begins to pull at Fahmi’s mouth, he isn’t sure he succeeds. 

“Stay. Please.”

“I will,” he says, running a hand down Fahmi’s arm in reassurance. He has to stop himself from lacing their fingers together. He waits for him to finish chewing on whatever need he struggles to voice without complaint. 

Fahmi mumbles, “Another. Again.”

“Same way?”

He startles, tail picking up tempo against the sheets, and asks incredulously, “There ‘re others?”

“A veritable collection and, even then, there are adventurous folk whose tastes would add more to it.”

“Do what y’ know is comfortable for y—Rhun!” He flusters when the Seeker steals a kiss halfway through the sentence before moving on to mapping out a trail downward. He shivers when X’rhun licks a stripe across a nipple, rough tongue scraping against his skin in a surprisingly pleasant manner. 

The tiny pecks travel from neck to chest and further toward places Fahmi is decently sure no mouth should go. He laughs when X’rhun’s hair tickles his stomach and has to brush it away from his face just to keep from giggling the farther down he travels. 

X’rhun smiles into his skin, palms skating from his hips to the inside of his thighs before gently easing them open once more. He scoots backward on the bed before leaning down and putting his hands to work. 

He follows nearly the same pattern as he had before with grinding and pressing and stretching like he might be able to fit more than a few fingers outside of a fever dream (and the worst part is that he  _ could  _ add a fourth. He  _ could  _ abet Fahmi’s curiosity by pushing at limits he wasn't even aware he had and he would  _ let  _ him). 

It’s only when Fahmi relaxes somewhat that he buries his face betwixt his thighs. He hasn’t done this in many a year, but he still finds the act familiar enough that even the Keeper’s startled wiggling proves only a minor obstacle. He licks a broad stripe up to his clit, fingers still working steadily inside, before sealing his lips around it to suck. 

The noise Fahmi makes is one he has never heard before, some cross between a moan and a sob, and when he repeats the motion, he is rewarded further. Hands knot in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp, and the more he worships, the tighter their grip grows. 

When he delves deeper, tongue dipping to join where his fingers press inside, Fahmi pushes him back. He shakes his head, black hair spilling over his shoulders at the motion.

“If you wish me to stop, I will,” X’rhun says, voice slightly rough. He waits patiently for a reply even when all he wants to do is continue. “You need only say the word.”

Fahmi opens his mouth. Closes it. Bites his lip. 

“Would you prefer to nod?”

He shakes his head. “I c’n speak,” he mumbles, pausing for a long moment to collect himself before turning his head downward as if to meet eyes. 

X’rhun has a vague sense of gratefulness that Fahmi cannot see him and how he has slick smeared all across his lips and chin. 

“That place is… not f’r mouths,” he manages, fingers slowly releasing his hair as if to say  _ “you can stop that”  _ even when it’s clear he enjoys the pleasure the act brings. 

X’rhun takes one of his hands in his, the free non-messy one, and says in his most laughably flirtatious tone, “And what if I want to go down on the handsomest man I’ve ever met?” 

He half regrets it the moment it’s out of his mouth, but the way it makes Fahmi startle is worth it. He smiles hesitantly, hand squeezing gently where their fingers are laced together (what a dream come true), and doesn’t say that he  _ can’t  _ give further compliments. 

“What if I’d like nothing more than to make sure you’re well and truly sated?”

“If… if y’  _ want  _ to,” he says, words stilted, “you may, but it’s not—y’don’t  _ have  _ to—” He groans, frustrated, before stating, “I don’ want you t’ do it jus’ because o’ the poison.” 

“So if I were to say that I am doing this out of no obligation, you would oblige?”

He nods.

“Well then,” X’rhun says with an alarming amount of nonchalance, “I would quite like to continue where we left off.”

Fahmi tentatively puts his free hand back on his hair, feeling him dip down before—“Ah!” 

His nerves light up like leylines at the press of tongue against places he is fairly sure it should not be. There is  _ fire  _ inside of him, a burning so intense that he nearly feels he may immolate, and it is stoked with every press of fingers against that spot that makes him see stars. 

There is a vision of the celestial heavens trying to make itself known when X’rhun presses that much further inside with his tongue. He can’t catch his breath, can’t think to say how good it feels, can’t tip over the edge because somehow he is balancing on it. 

X’rhun makes a noise against him but his ears hear his own heartbeat more clearly than aught else. It vibrates through him with a muffled sort of urgency like maybe he’s taking his pleasure in turn and— _ oh—what a thought that is. _

He tumbles over the precipice with a choked cry. His back bows, hand tightening in X’rhun’s hair enough to make him growl on reflex, and the delicious pressure does not abate until he is well and truly spent. He gasps for air, chest heaving, and wonders distantly if this is what the seventh heaven is like. 

He quakes, making near inaudible sounds as he floats somewhere above his body. He feels like the world is wrapped in a layer of cotton and electricity, overstimulated nerves firing sharply when X’rhun withdraws. 

“By Rhalgr,” he rasps, the entire lower half of his face a bit past damp. “That’s one hell of a compliment.”

Fahmi wheezes instead of laughing before carefully releasing his grip and shaking out his hand. “S’rry ‘bout that, Rhun.”

“No harm done,” he replies. “Truthfully, I enjoyed it.”

“Are you—d’you need, um…”

“Hm?”

“D’you want me t’help?” Fahmi asks, words slightly slurred. 

X’rhun can feel himself heat at the thought. “There is nothing you need help with,” he says, intending to attend to himself in the false privacy of some back alley of Mor Dhona instead of ruining their working relationship further. “How do you feel?”

“Don’ lie t’me.”

He straightens, rolling his neck and feeling it click a few times, before saying as confidently as he can, “I would not dream to.”

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

Fahmi frowns thunderously, some sections of the expression uneven from scar tissue that’s developed too deep, and snaps, “I c’n smell you.”

And maybe X’rhun made a mistake. A series of them, really. If Fahmi can smell him with more accuracy than he can read his aether, it’s probably a fact long known that he finds the other man attractive. He forgets that other Miqo’te can pick up on each other’s needs faster than other folk, a product of time spent alone or in the company of Hyurs more often than not, and has to keep himself from simply denying it. He would do better to simply admit to his wants and get it over with.

“My apologies, Fahmi. I had no intent to upset you.”

“But y’ still lied.”

He sucks a breath in through his teeth. “Yes. I did.”

They lapse into an awkward silence. Fahmi shifts, wincing when his muscles twinge, and settles close enough for their legs to touch. 

He asks, “Would y’ let me, if I wanted t’ go down on th’ handsomest Red Mage I’ve ever met?”

X’rhun  _ groans,  _ the sound tapering off into laughter. “I’m the  _ only  _ Red Mage you’ve ever met.”

“Lambard.”

“Doesn’t count.”

Fahmi shrugs. “So,” he says, tapping his fingers on the sheets, “will you?”

“I—yes.” 

He maybe should have waited for more than a second before responding but his brain has been knocked offline along with all of his inhibitions. It’s like his anxiety decided somewhere around half a bell prior to clock out early and take all the rowdier fears with it. He allows himself this, though, and finds it’s somehow easier to accept than deny—even knowing the inevitable result.

Fahmi smiles at him with too much teeth and feral affection like he’s been waiting just as long. “How d’ you want me?”

“Whichever way is—”

“How,” he reiterates sharply, “do you want me?”

X’rhun falters, jaw working on words he isn’t sure he can say, before they spill from his throat anyway. “On your knees.” 

“As you wish,” he parrots, clambering off the bed with pillow in hand before settling by the foot of it. The pillow cushions his knees from the unforgiving wood of the inn room’s worn planking as he finds a comfortable position. 

He pats the mattress with a sprightliness that in no way matches the amount of energy he’s expended in the bell prior and waits for X’rhun to shimmy out of his uniform pants and sit down. His legs box him in, Fahmi carefully sliding his hands from the knee inward to rest by his hips. 

“I… don’ actually know what t’ do from here,” he admits. “Don’ usually give it like this.”

“What are you familiar with?”

The blush that had begun to abate comes back with a vengeance, spreading down to his chest when he says, “Bein’ good.”

“As in submission?” he asks. The little demon in his head purrs at the thought of saying  _ used.  _ He knows those two phrases are not congruent.

Fahmi nods haltingly. “Helps with th’ anxiety.”

“Would you like that with me?”

He frowns again, complaining, “All this lovin’ for me an’ y’ won’t jus’ tell me what you want.”

“I want nothing that you are not comfortable providing,” X’rhun says, closing his eyes to avoid staring down at the  _ godsdamned Warrior of Light  _ kneeling before him. He intends to only take that which is freely given, even if it tests his self control.

“I know y’ wouldn’t treat me bad. Whatever y’ want, I’ll give.”

He steels himself before opening his eyes, placing his hands tentatively on Fahmi’s head. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning forward. “Guide me?”

He’s careful with his hold, fingertips bumping against nearly hidden horns, and it’s like all decency leaves him in one big rush as Fahmi takes him into his mouth. His grip tightens and his hips buck forward before he can stop himself. 

It feels like rapture after having neglected himself to please him. His trousers had been a prison—too tight in the worst of ways, laces and buttons digging into him where he had strained against the fabric—and it is only due to his fixation on bringing Fahmi pleasure that he hadn't undone the top of them and shoved a hand inside to take the edge off. Or go careening over it. One of the two.

Fahmi moans around him when his nails scratch at the base of one of his horns, spit slipping from the side of his mouth when he pulls off to lick at his erection. X’rhun is reminded of a housecat with how his tongue works him over one little bit at a time. 

“Who was it with a kitten’s temperament?” he jokes, breath catching when Fahmi bites the inside of his thigh in response. 

His mouth is wet and hot and everything he’s dreamed of when he sinks down on him again. That same little demon reminds that Fahmi said he could take what he wants, technically, and that it would be freely given. 

The next time Fahmi bobs his head, he presses him forward that much more. It’s not with much force and he knows Fahmi can and would resist should he dislike it. He expects some type of displeasure, but soon finds that it's just his paranoia talking when he makes a pleased sound around him instead of pulling off. 

He tries again the next time and the time after that until they find a rhythm that is punctuated by his uneven breathing and whispers of  _ “perfect”  _ and  _ “by the Twelve.”  _ He knows he won’t last—he nearly came inside his smalls when he was eating him out—and the way Fahmi sucks at him is hell on his frayed nerves. 

He’s so close.

Fahmi looks up at him when he pushes him back, hazy and thoroughly debauched, and asks, “Rhun?” His voice crackles, cutting out on the N, and he coughs a couple times. 

X’rhun  _ throbs.  _ “I—” he says, pausing abruptly before gathering what remains of his wits. “I can handle it from here.”

“D’you  _ want  _ to?”

He blinks. “Not particularly,” he says, suspicious of the inquiry, “but the only other outcome is not to everyone’s taste.”

Fahmi sighs and says, “Is t’ mine.” like that should be obvious and not just one of X’rhun’s internalized fantasies he’s sworn not to act on. “You c’n do it. I don’ mind.”

“Oh,” he says in nearly the same tone as he had before. “If you are sure.”

He nods, ears flicking and earrings clicking at the motion. He opens his mouth again, waiting, and it takes everything in X’rhun to not cum right there on his face. 

It’s a miracle he makes it into his mouth, precum leaking onto his tongue and dripping down the shaft, but the moment Fahmi rocks forward, hollows his cheeks, and sucks—he’s gone. 

There are spots in his vision and his body is full of sparks. He can distantly hear someone growl before he realizes that it’s  _ him,  _ chest vibrating with it as he holds Fahmi in place, hips fucking in disjointed thrusts as he rides out his orgasm. He lets go with numbed hands, panting and red in the face. His hair sticks to the back of his neck and his shirt is much the same. 

Fahmi pulls back after a long moment and swallows. Honest to Menphina,  _ swallows.  _ He licks his lips, wiping at them with the back of his hand, and asks, voice thoroughly wrecked, “Was that alright?” 

He shifts when X’rhun reaches down to pull him from the floor and back up onto the bed, cheeks red enough to match his lips, and smiles into the kisses he receives. 

“Perfect, really.”

The affection is a necessity for both of them, though for different reasons. 

X’rhun can taste himself on Fahmi’s tongue. The false rut scent has faded somewhat, but the stench of arousal has not. He’s somehow not surprised when Fahmi takes one of his hands and places it directly on his heat and asks, “One more?” 

The haziness in his expression hasn’t faded, but he seems pleased to have it, like giving him pleasure was nearly better than being cared for. 

X’rhun smiles wryly, bemoaning his own fortune. “As you wish, kitten.”

Fahmi smacks him in the face with the remaining pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment mayhaps? 🥺

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know how to write sex scenes and at this point i'm too embarrassed to ask  
> hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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